It's only a formality, of course. In fact, United players are used to it. They have got this guard of honour thing off to a T.

And they will make a decent game of it. Just as long as they exit stage left pretty sharpish and leave the champions to their celebrations.

On his way down the tunnel, Sir Alex Ferguson passes Peter Kenyon, a man who wouldn't have been a household name in his own household if it hadn't been for Fergie.

Kenyon ignores him. He only has eyes for Roman.

Jose Mourinho is much more magnanimous. In his speech, he pays tribute to a legend.

He even nips into the United dressing room, gives Fergie a bottle of red and offers him use of a villa in Portugal.

Quiet place. Not too hilly so Alex and Cath can take nice walks.

The United boss turns to rally his players, but Rio's halfway to Chinawhite while Rooney and Ronaldo are heading for their limo.

Only Keane remains. And they are still not speaking.

Football. Bloody hell.

Three words that make up one of the greatest-ever sporting quotes.

Three words - uttered after the 1999 Champions League final - that sum up Fergie's passion.

And the three words that will eventually prove a fitting epitaph for one of the finest club managers the game has seen.

He was referring to the sport's penchant for snatching victory from the clutches of despair - its glorious unpredictability. Something Chelsea are trying to bankroll out of the business. As he surveys the Premiership on the eve of the new season, Fergie might be forgiven for repeating the phrase.

Kenyon, who slithered to prominence on the back of the success Ferguson brought to Old Trafford, believes the Premiership winners will come from a small group of one.

Rio Ferdinand - one meaningful medal and one missed drugs test to his name - continues to thumb his nose at a hundred grand a week.

Mourinho has the sort of financial resources that could Make Poverty History.

And three of Fergie's players opt for luxury car rather than team coach for a return journey from a friendly.

It was in Clyde - a place that embodies the value of solidarity that Sir Alex has treasured for his entire career.

Football. Bloody hell.

Regardless of the shadow that Abramovich's chequebook casts over the rest of the Premiership, the new campaign promises to be as riveting as ever.

But my biggest fear is for Fergie.

A fear that he will simply have to fade away with the sound of Kenyon's chirping and Mourinho's patronising words ringing in his ears.

Forty-five minutes before THE three words, Fergie had addressed his team.

This is what he said.

"At the end of this game, the European Cup will be only six feet away from you and you'll not even be able to touch it if we lose. And for many of you that will be the closest you will ever get. Don't you dare come back in here without giving your all."

This season of all seasons, Ferguson's team have a duty to go out next Saturday and not dare come back next May without giving it their all.

And then maybe he'll get the send-off he deserves.

Maybe on April 29, 2006, at Stamford Bridge, Chelsea will form the most expensive guard of honour ever seen in football.

And maybe Kenyon, Abramovich and Mourinho will slope off into the tunnel, turn to each other and say...